"Come on, Lola! You're making me nervous with all this pacing! ¡Dios!"
Hours before midnight on the Citadel, two hooded figures lurked outside an apartment building, plotting. The larger of the two, leaning heavily against a planter, rolled his massive shoulders tensely as he watched the other pace a rut in the grass, scowling from underneath his hood. The rain had soaked them both through as they stood outside the tenement, but the large man's companion didn't seem to mind. Or maybe she didn't even notice the rain. He'd never admit it, but she unsettled him in more ways than one, her constant fluid movements making his fingers clench tightly around the grip of his Crusader shotgun. She flashed him a grin, energetic and feral, her teeth glinting unusually bright in the glow of the Citadel's artificial moonlight. He likened her to a rabid wolf, looming over a down antelope with that savage smile, before sinking its teeth into the meat of its throat.
He had to stop watching those nature documentaries. He suppressed a shiver.
"It's sort of exciting, though, isn't it?" Her voice was a hiss, barely above a whisper, but he felt as if she shouted it. She moved, faster than he would have liked, and suddenly she was inches away from him, standing on her tiptoes. He balked at the sudden closeness of her, leaning back as far as he could without giving himself away. He didn't particularly like familiarity, at least not outside the bedroom. Her bottle-green eyes stood out like strange embers in the darkness, her face lit only by the distant street lamp. She pulled down her hood – probably shouldn't do that – allowing the cool rain to wash over her strawberry blonde hair, cropped short at the nape of her neck. Tendrils of it clung to her face as she leaned her head back to better accept the cool gift of rain.
In today's society, someone with features like hers was considered a freak of nature. Almost everyone was mixed race at this point in human history, with olive skin of varying darkness and brown eyes. People like her were a rarity, all pale and colorful and oddly bright against her darker-skinned peers. Products of a forgotten age where people actually cared about the color of another's skin. He'd probably find her beautiful and exotic if he didn't know exactly what she was capable of. His eyes narrowed a bit at the memory of their first meeting. That man's head had just exploded.
"I mean, finally!" She whirled on her heel, and started pacing again, derailing his train of thought. "After all these years, Nathan and I will – "
She cut herself off and came to a halt, her back to him, a few feet away. An awkward silence hung heavily between them, stretching on for several minutes. The large man didn't press the subject. He looked away from her, strangely embarrassed. She rarely spoke about her brother, the circumstances surrounding his death, and he wasn't the type of person to ask a lot of questions. He'd learned the hard way, years ago, that curiosity was a dangerous thing in this profession. So he kept quiet, he didn't ask, he didn't push. If it was important, he trusted her enough to tell him.
That's probably a mistake.
Suddenly, the window they had been watching lit up, a faint yellow glow flickering into life a few apartments down from them. It caught his eye. He hissed a warning to her back and she spun, graceful and almost leisurely, to look at the window, watching the shadow move with hungry fascination. And there was that feral, crazy grin that made him just a little afraid of her. She sidled up beside him as they crouched behind a planter, and he found himself edging away from her just a bit. She was too familiar with him outside of the bed they sometimes shared, always finding ways to be close and he didn't like it. Made it harder to distance himself from her.
He was a big man, and it took a lot to unnerve him, but this tiny, ferocious creature made him feel incredibly uneasy, and he killed people for a living.
They watched the shadow move around the apartment for a few minutes, crouched motionless behind the planter. His hand found the grip of his shotgun for comfort, hidden at his lower back, beneath his baggy black sweatshirt. Even though it was ungainly and huge, an irresponsible choice for a concealed weapon, he loved this shotgun. He'd never had a more reliable friend. And despite his proclivity for dangerous and oftentimes deadly activities, anxiety gnawed at his insides.
"How do you want to do this, Lola?"
"She knows me. She'll let me in." There was a hard, vicious edge to her voice. He swallowed at the implication.
She was standing now, always fluid, never a misstep or a gesture out of place. Practiced. He briefly wondered if she'd fantasized about this moment, in the years it had taken her to build up this scheme. He could see it on her face sometimes, when she thought he wasn't looking, that distant look in her eyes, the way she became suddenly still in the middle of some energetic activity. This place haunted her. They skirted around the perimeter of the building to the front door of the complex. There wasn't a guard, or a doorman. The front door wasn't even locked. Something hot and unsettling crept into the pit of his stomach.
"This doesn't feel right, Lola," he hissed, and she shrugged his concerns away with a jerk of her shoulder, her face fierce with determination.
Six years she had waited for this day. She had planned from the shadows, she had bled, suffered, and killed hundreds to get here. Six years. Suddenly, she was there again, her mind drawing upon the memory with startling, sickening clarity. She was younger, barely into high school. She was slumped against a building in a dirty slum alley, holding her brother's heavy frame in her lap as the life ebbed from him. He coughed wetly, blood splattered his lips, flecking across his chin. His breathing was irregular and ragged, edged with pain. The gunshot wound on his stomach bled freely, a red splotch growing rapidly on his gray t-shirt. Tears, hot and thick and blinding, flowed freely from her eyes as she smoothed his hair, the same color as hers, from his sweaty face with blood-slicked fingers. She murmured soothing nonsense in his ear, her fingers trembling on his forehead. His eyes grew glassy, half-lidded as he struggled to remain conscious.
And there was a dark, shadowed figure standing a few feet away, clutching a smoking Carnifex pistol. Words, empty and meaningless, were spoken. They were dulled, muffled by her imperfect memory, distorted by time and pain. "You've both killed people, Nora. I'm not sorry."
And the pistol turned towards her skull.
Somewhere far away, she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and she was hurled violently back to the present. She stood, paralyzed, in the door of the apartment building. Her companion, usually not one for such forwardness, had sidled up beside her. His hand was warm and large, settled upon her shoulder in what he hoped was a gesture of comfort. When he squeezed, she started and jerked away from the touch, looking half-wild and ready to flee for just a moment, before the memory faded and she was grounded in reality once more. She stared at him with those wide eyes, her expression entirely unreadable.
¡Pendejo! He thought his head might burst from embarrassment.
They'd maintained a strange relationship in the few years they'd worked together on this. They barely knew one another, but their regular rendezvous were sometimes a bit more… intimate. But it was still impersonal, only ever skin-deep. Just fucking. Even the name he called her, Lola, was one he had made up himself. It felt strange not saying anything against her neck when they came together, seeking release, sweaty and rough and carnal. He didn't want to admit to himself just how much he looked forward to those clandestine trysts, where she'd sneak into his grimy apartment in the middle of the night and reach for him in the darkness.
He cleared his throat and gestured wordlessly down the hallway. She eyed him for another heartbeat, two, before stalking past him down the long corridor. It was lined with identical doors at equal intervals, each with a small plaque bearing the apartment number beside it. Some had welcome mats, a few had other decorative items plastered to the metal. Several had children's toys littered about in front of them. She strode past all of them, blindly, knowing by heart the exact door she needed. How many times had she visited this hall in her dreams? How many times had she envisioned this day?
Apartment 212. She came to a halt before the door. It was entirely unremarkable. Not even a mat to wipe shoes on.
For a long moment, she didn't move. The large man at her side pulled down his hood, still wet with rain, to reveal the short, unkempt mohawk made from his dark brown curls, the crisscross of tattoos along the side of his neck, and the scar that ran across his cheek and nose, and another down the side of his chin. He scratched at the considerable stubble on his jaw, staring at her shamelessly. She didn't seem to be interested in moving. He cast furtive glances up and down the corridor, shifting uneasily behind her. His hand came up reflexively to rest on the concealed grip of the shotgun at his lower back. He was about to lean forward and knock when she spoke.
"Do you know what I'm going to do to her, Vega?"
His last name was all he had told her about himself, the only name she ever called him by. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. He strained to hear it, but she didn't seem to be speaking directly to him. The look on her face told him that she was miles away, revisiting some memory. Her hands clenched into trembling fists at her sides. He thought for a moment he saw sparks of static electricity there, her omni-tool flickering on her wrist for a moment. She startled him with a quiet, hysterical giggle that bubbled up from her throat, remarkably loud in the silence of the corridor. His eyes widened a bit, his expression growing steadily more panicked.
"I've thought about it, you know… what I was going to do to her when I got here. And now… Now I can't open the damn door!" Her voice rose sharply at the end, almost coming to a shriek in the quiet hallway, and he quickly slapped his large hand over her mouth to stifle her. She didn't fight against his grasp, understandably tense as he crushed her against his chest. They froze, listening intently to the noises around them, both heartbeats hammering as one. A baby cried somewhere above them. There were footsteps, some murmuring, but the telltale whoosh of doors opening was not heard. Vega relaxed after another long minute, and released her.
He scowled at her wordlessly, his brown eyes reproachful.
And she was back to normal, – normal for her, anyway – that wild grin glued in place, but her green eyes were fierce and savage, bloodthirsty. It was bizarre combination, to say the least. Vega wasn't sure if he really wanted to know what sort of shit went on inside that head of hers. She'd hired him to kill for her, to protect her. And that's what he was going to do. The extracurricular activities late at night were just a perk, and she was more than willing. He rolled his massive shoulders to loosen the building tension there. Now she was digging through her pockets, searching for something.
She produced small plastic bag, no longer than his thumb and barely just as wide, filled with dark red granules that sparkled in the dim light of the corridor. What the hell did she have red sand for?
A low growl rumbled through him and his hand enclosed around her wrist. She glowered at him, livid, and tried to jerk her hand from his grip, but his strength won out in the end. He drew her closer, his grip vice-like on her wrist. Perhaps he had never realized just how much bigger he was than her, but now they were both painfully aware that he could probably seriously injure her without real effort. She winced and brought her other hand up to pull at his fingers ineffectively.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed. He thought they had finished with red sand. A vision of her filled his mind's eye, rocking back and forth on his mattress, muttering, clawing at her skin until it bled –
She pried his fingers off her wrist and withdrew from him, rubbing the bruise that was already forming. "Goddammit, Vega, if you'd let me explain! It's not for me, it's for her!" she whispered harshly, jerking her head towards the closed door of apartment 212. "That's how she knows me." She didn't meet his eye. She squirmed a bit underneath his furious gaze. "I didn't tell you, but Vosque gave me a bit more to sell and… we needed the credits."
Vega made an angry noise at the back of his throat and took a step back. He'd deal with Vosque later, the sniveling little bastard. "You should have told me, Lola," he growled, folding his thick arms over his massive chest. Vega was a lot of things, a liar, a murderer, but he was no drug addict. But when she had crept into his bedroom through the window late one night, carrying that little packet of red sand between her teeth as she crawled towards him, whispering and murmuring and naked, he had given in. It made their sex fantastic, the best he'd had, but it quickly spiraled out of control.
"You are just my bodyguard. A hired gun," she spat viciously, her lips twisted into a snarl. "I don't need to tell you shit."
Her words stung like the crack of a whip. He hated himself for giving a shit in the first place. He drew back a little, his face impassive and stony, and looked away from her. If that was the way she wanted it. He'd remember this the next time she found her way into his bed, with her questing, greedy hands, and the hushed moans she breathed against his neck that made his skin prickle. Let her ruin her own life. She'd not drag him down with her.
They'd wasted enough time.
She whirled away from him and knocked firmly on the metal door, once, twice, three times. The sound of movement, shuffling around in the room inside, and then –
The door opened an inch or two. She didn't flinch when the barrel of a shotgun pressed against her forehead. Vega's hand twitched to the grip of his own shotgun, but he didn't draw it. Not yet. Holding the gun was a woman in her late twenties, with dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck and brown, paranoid eyes. There was boxing tape wrapped around the hands that gripped the gun. Recognition dawned on her features, but she didn't remove the barrel from Lola's forehead. Vega's face remained as impassive as ever, and she spoke quietly.
"Nora Shepard." She spat the name with disgust. "What the hell are you doing here? You got my shit?"
So that was her name. He still preferred Lola.
Nora lifted the tiny bag of red sand between two long fingers and shook it playfully. She arched a brow, the corner of her lips twitched into a smile. Vega had to hand it to her, Nora was a master manipulator. The woman holding the shotgun eyed her mistrustfully for a moment – her eyes flicked cautiously to Vega, sizing him up. There was a moment where it looked like she was going to turn them away, or shoot them. Vega's hands tightened on the grip of his shotgun, tensing for the moment when they'd have to shoot and run.
But it seemed her addiction won out in the end.
She withdrew the gun, and shut the door with a soft whoosh. There was the sound of button presses on the other side, and Vega caught the imperceptible chirp of a deactivated security alarm. Then the door opened in earnest, and the woman stood in the doorway, wearing cargo shorts and a tank top with a logo he couldn't quite see in the darkness. Her shotgun, another Crusader, was hanging from the crook of one arm, as if to remind them. At least she has good taste in weapons. She eyed Vega again, taking in his neck tattoos and scarred face, before jerking her head towards the inside of her apartment.
Nora slunk past her, always graceful, and Vega followed, his hand falling from the grip of the concealed shotgun.
The door snapped shut behind him, and the stranger leaned her shotgun against the wall beside the doorframe. Inside the apartment, Vega learned their quarry's name. Ashley Williams. Where had he heard that name before? The last few years had been a bit of a blur for the both of them, between the red sand, the sex, and planning this moment. They didn't really pay much attention to the news. He had expected Nora to get right into it, but it seemed she was content with draw the moment out. She paced Ashley's bedroom like a panther, left to right, then back again, her eyes never leaving Ashley's back. Ashley didn't seem to notice, or care. She must have had previous experience with Nora's… eccentricities. Vega leaned against the closed closet door, watching his partner's sinewy pacing. He did his best to seem utterly uninterested.
Ashley was pawing through her dresser drawers now, and she produced a credit chit. She reached to hand it to Nora, her free hand twitching for the baggy of red sand that was offered in exchange.
The next moment happened so fast, it took even Vega by surprise, and he had been expecting it.
As Ashley's fingers closed around the bag, Nora's hand shot out, grabbed Ashley's wrist and yanked her close. The bag of red sand fell from Ashley's fingers with a startled gasp. Somehow, from somewhere on her person, Nora had produced a pistol, and pressed the muzzle firmly into Ashley's stomach in the same motion. Nora's whole body was quivering, her eyes overly bright and that same frightening grin had appeared. It was so big Vega thought her face might split in two. Ashley could only stare, open-mouthed, at Nora, her lips forming a silent plea that went completely unnoticed.
"This is for Nathan, you bitch. I'm not sorry," Nora hissed savagely, her face, screwed up in a delighted, disgusted sneer, inches from Ashley's. She squeezed the trigger.
The window of Ashley's bedroom shattered as the bullet ricocheted off the wall. Nora didn't even flinch as shards of glass flew through the air. Ashley clutched at her bleeding stomach, coughing a trickle of blood as Nora released her wrist. Vega stared at Nora, at his Lola, as if seeing her for the first time. He had seen her take lives before, but this. She looked like she was enjoying it. He shivered.
And then Nora was turning away, content to leave Ashley there to die, choking on her own blood. But as Ashley stumbled back a step, gasping raggedly for breath, only Vega caught the motion of her hand as it swung behind her. She drew a pistol from somewhere under her tank top, aiming it at Nora's retreating back.
He reacted without thinking.
In one motion, strangely nimble for such a hulk of a man, he drew his shotgun from under his sweatshirt. He extended his arm, the gun held firmly in one fist, and pressed the muzzle against her already bleeding stomach. He pulled the trigger without hesitation. She turned to stare at him, another cough producing a new line of blood that dribbled down her chin, the Carnifex still clutched in her hand. Slowly, she sunk to her knees, her body curving to the ground in a delicate arc before it hit the carpet with a dull, wet thud. She lay, eyes wide and unseeing, dead upon the floor.
Nora turned at the sound of his gunshot, to see him standing over her body, his shotgun held tightly in his fist. He leaned forward as a shaft of light fell across the logo on her tank top, illuminating it.
He felt suddenly numb. He'd recognize that symbol anywhere. He'd seen it in vids as a kid, and immediately realized where he had heard the name before.
He rounded sharply on Nora, who took a defensive step back, ready to run. Her eyes were pained, but he didn't see remorse there. "A Council Spectre? You had me kill a Council fuckin' Spectre?" he thundered, gesturing fiercely with his shotgun at the corpse on the carpet. With the sound of his heart pounding in ears, he didn't seem to realize how loud he was being, and Nora lunged forward, lithe as ever, to silence him with her mouth. He tasted red sand and blood on her lips and tongue, he felt her fingers digging into his meaty shoulders, sliding up to his neck, her smaller frame taut, standing on tiptoes, pressed against his chest. He heard her small moans against his mouth –
This was wrong. This wasn't how he wanted it to happen.
His head spun with sudden visceral, paralyzing fear and nausea, and he pushed her away roughly, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth. She stumbled back, looking lost for the first time since he'd met her. He began muttering in frenzied, rapid Spanish. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the cooling dead body of the second human Spectre as he paced, agitated, back and forth across the tiny bedroom. Now it was his turn to be the frantic one, as she stood, stoic and unmoving, watching him.
"We have to get the fuck out of here, now," snarled Vega, managing to cease his moving for a moment to look at her.
But she wasn't looking at him. She had turned her head slightly, towards the front door, concentrating. The unmistakable sound of someone knocking on the door had caught her attention. Without moving her head, her green eyes flicked to Vega's face. He swallowed hard. Shitshitshit. Someone was attempting to gain access to the apartment to check on the noise. But the door was locked. No one could get in without sufficient hacking skills, or a passcode key.
They didn't move, didn't breathe, for what seemed like an eternity, until the sounds of a chirruping omni-tool sent ice through their veins. They weren't sure if that was the sound of a bypass module being activated, or a passcode key being entered, but they weren't going to stick around to find out. Nora bent, snatched the dropped credit chit and the baggy of red sand, and slunk past him to the broken window. She eyed him, and jerked her head towards it. He hesitated, and then caught sight of the assault rifle peeking out from underneath the dead Spectre's bed sheets. Without thinking, he snatched it up and hurried back to her side. He drew his hood over his head as he threw a leg over the windowsill. His foot caught the lamp on the nightstand and knocked it to the ground. A jagged piece of glass scraped a gash against his thigh, caught some of the fabric of his dark pants, but his body was running on pure adrenaline now, and he didn't even notice. He shoved the stolen assault rifle under his sweatshirt, into the holster normally reserved for his shotgun. He swung his other leg over the sill, and shoved the shotgun into her hands.
The sound of the doors whooshing open made her heart turn to ice in her chest. She froze as footsteps, soft and hesitating, caught her attention. A squat old woman in a pink robe and silk pajamas had entered the apartment now, and had a clear view of the pair from the doorway. Vega swore under his breath in Spanish, and reached out and grabbed her by the waist. He easily hoisted her out of the window, shotgun still clutched tightly in her hands, and cradled her against his chest as he turned and ran, as fast as his legs could take them, away from the building.
The old woman was shouting now, shuffling to the window as they disappeared into the night.